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When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck. Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully.“Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back.”Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly.“These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me.”